Trafika Europe 8 - Romanian Holiday

Ioana Pârvulescu

in a straight line, like a man who had just had to swallow an undeserved reproach, but controlled himself with dignity. Costache disguised his sudden good mood. The lad was holding his cap by the visor in his left hand and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, leaving splashes of water and mud on the wooden floor. The cop signalled the other two to leave the room. ‘Are you left-handed?’ Costache had as keen an eye for details as didDrMargulis, except that the cop had an eye for every single thing, whereas the doctor had an eye only for the symptoms of disease. The policeman knew by instinct when there was something untoward, as surely as the doctor knew when he had a stomach- ache. By instinct, Nicu lied

to them both. He unclenched his lips and determinedly said: ‘No, sir, I’m not! I’m right-handed.’ ‘Sit down over here. Are you hungry?’ ‘No!’ ‘Just as well. Tell me to the last detail what you talked about with the stranger you met yesterday in front of the Icoanei Church.’ Nicu sighed and unbuttoned his tunic: so this was what it was all about. Not the accident with the icicles or the wallet, which he would not have like to come to the attention of the Police, because then he would not have received the reward. And nor could it be some roguery on his mother’s part. It was the first time he had spoken to Costache and at close quarters he looked less frightening than

178